


The Turkey Shoot Affair

by paulah_GJ



Series: MFU Holiday Stories [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Don't worry Napoleon redeems himself, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 00:17:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12805485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paulah_GJ/pseuds/paulah_GJ
Summary: Napoleon's idea of Thanksgiving is very different from Illya's.





	The Turkey Shoot Affair

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on FF.net.

 

The road roughened toward the end that neared the lake. The cabin could be seen through the trees where the branches lost their leaves and the autumn carpet of yellows and reds lined the path to the door.

 

“See Illya. What did I tell you? It’s a lovely place for a thanksgiving holiday,” Napoleon said as they pulled up to the side of the building. “We’ll have a nice peaceful weekend and some good food and be able to relax for awhile.”

 

He smiled at Illya as he turned off the engine. Napoleon knew his friend probably wouldn’t be happy about Mindy and Sissy joining them but what the little Russian didn’t know wouldn’t hurt Solo. At least for the moment.

 

“I hope you are doing the cooking,” Illya said. He could kill in silence and pass himself off as just about anyone in disguise but his culinary skills lacked, well, taste. It was easy to open a can of soup or make a cheese sandwich but for anything more involved than that he frequented assorted ethnic restaurants.

 

“I’ve got it under control,” Napoleon replied as he opened the trunk and began taking out the groceries. He was sure Mindy and Sissy knew how to cook. “Why don’t you go in and get the fireplace going?”

 

Illya preceded Napoleon, wading through the drifting leaves to the front door. Upon entering he looked around and thought Napoleon was too extravagant as usual. The place was far bigger than the two of them needed for a long weekend of relaxation. Of course Illya was actually eager to see what this Thanksgiving was all about. He’d done his research. This was a good opportunity to do the lab work.  

 

The fireplace consisted of a large river rock hearth and chimney with a stockpile of wood and a few blackened sticks left from the last usage. Illya placed some small sticks for kindling in the center and lit them with his lighter, which also doubled as a handy compass and tracking device. As the flames grew and established themselves, Illya piled on larger pieces of wood to build a self-sustaining fire.

 

Napoleon finished bringing the groceries in and started to put them away. “Ho, ho, ho! Merry Thanksgiving!” he bellowed, all smiles.

 

From his spot in front of the fireplace, Illya frowned at him. “Isn’t that supposed to be Merry Christmas?”

 

“This is the start of the holiday season, Illya. It’s all ho, ho, ho from now until New Year’s day.”

 

Illya looked unconvinced. “If you say so.” He went back to tending the fire.

 

Napoleon was really looking forward to this weekend. Five whole days! He couldn’t believe it when Mr. Waverly gave them the day before and the day after Thanksgiving off. And now here he was, in a rustic, but not too rustic, cabin in a beautiful forest, getting ready for the kickoff to the holidays. Good food, good company. Not just Illya, either, although Napoleon enjoyed his partner’s company very much. No, the holiday would be made merrier by his own thoughtful addition of Mindy and her friend Sissy, who would join them this evening. Illya didn’t know about that and if Napoleon had his way--which he would--Illya wouldn’t find out until the two young lovelies were knocking on their door. He would be irritated at first, but Napoleon felt sure he could convince his friend it would be more fun this way. Especially since the cabin only had two bedrooms and two beds. Ho, ho, ho, indeed.

 

He pulled the piece-de-resistance out of its grocery bag: A large Tom turkey, complete with bagged giblets stuffed in its body cavity. It landed on the counter with a heavy thunk.

 

Brows knitted, Illya wandered over. “What’s that?”

 

Napoleon beamed. “It’s our Thanksgiving bird.”

 

“Oh! Did you pluck a THRUSH and plan on serving him or her up on a platter, stuffed with dressing?” Illya rapped his knuckles on the turkey. “It’s frozen,” he declared.

 

Napoleon sniffed with indignation. “It won’t be by tomorrow.”

 

Illya picked it up and dropped it onto the counter. It landed with a loud thud. “Yes it will.”

 

Napoleon twisted his lips in irritation. “I will soak it in a pan of cold water. It’ll thaw.”

 

“Don’t bother,” Illya murmured, studying the bird as though it held the secrets to some great mystery. “You promised me we could have a traditional Thanksgiving and that’s what I plan to have.”

 

Napoleon rummaged under the sink for a large pan. He pulled out a big black one, placed it in the sink, and put the frozen bird into it. He turned on the cold water and filled the pan. “It’s a turkey, Illya. You can’t get more traditional than that.”

 

Illya shook his head. “I’ve done my research, Napoleon. The pilgrims and Indians of the first Thanksgiving did not buy a frozen turkey from a supermarket.”

 

Napoleon pursed his lips, not quite liking where he thought this conversation was headed. “So?”

 

Illya smiled brightly at him. “I shall hunt down our turkey and you shall cook it.”

 

“You want to hunt a turkey?”

 

Illya nodded. “I’ve checked. These woods are full of big, fat turkeys just waiting to be the guest of honor for our traditional feast.” Napoleon was just about to object when Illya wistfully added, “It will be nice to hunt a real bird for a change instead of a featherless THRUSH.”

 

Napoleon sighed. It wasn’t that long ago that Mother Fear had gotten hold of his partner and, although Illya had performed in the field as well as ever, he knew the whole ordeal still bothered his Russian friend. Besides, if Illya was going to take an active interest in American traditions, he didn’t want to discourage him. “All right. You play big white hunter and I’ll cook what you bring home.” He held up a finger before Illya could say anything. “But you have to gut it.”

 

“Of course,” Illya agreed, eyes twinkling with pleasure.

 

Gobble Gobble

 

The two men prepared the cabin for their stay, Illya thinking he’d have one bedroom and Napoleon the other. Napoleon didn’t discourage him. The girls wouldn’t get to the cabin until near dark so the CEA continued on a need to know basis. Rank had its privileges.

 

When Illya was satisfied that all the necessary preparations had been taken care of and adequate security was in place for their stay, he decided to go get their dinner for tomorrow. He gathered his hunting equipment and rifle and headed out the door.

 

Napoleon frowned as he watched his partner’s preparations. “You’re going to use that gun?”

 

Illya glanced at the rifle in his hand. “It may be old, but I guarantee it’s in excellent condition,” he said, his expression saying he was insulted Napoleon would think he wouldn’t take the best of care of his weapons.

 

“I’m sure it works beautifully, it’s just an odd choice.”

 

Illya stared at him.

 

“Oh, never mind. Good hunting.” Napoleon watched the blond go. In a way it gave him a good feeling to see Illya free in the wilderness, which tended to be much safer than the concrete jungle they came from. Not to mention the fact that it would be ten times easier to prepare for the ladies arrival tonight without Illya underfoot. He waited until Illya had disappeared into the woods before clapping his hands and heading into the kitchen to prepare the gourmet tray of fruit, cheese, crackers, and caviar. He’d show Illya just what Thanksgiving was really about.

 

Gobble Gobble

 

Illya trudged through the woods for the better part of an hour scouting the area. He actually encountered a deer and as much as he loved the meat it was too big to take advantage of alone. They couldn’t eat it all in the short holiday they had in any case.

 

Illya watched the deer move along and then he crossed over the trail to a spot where the trees thinned and a grassy meadow spread out under a perfectly clear sky. He thought he could hear the distant warble of wild turkeys on the other side. As long as he remained sheltered in the trees and waited, perhaps he’d have some luck and the birds would move into the meadow. He settled down to observe in silence.

 

He lay on his stomach and covered himself with the leaves, pine needles, twigs, and plants which made up the forest floor, rifle on the ground beside him ready to pick up at any given second. He felt confident he would hear the birds and have enough time to position his weapon before they showed up. About twenty minutes later he heard a noise that alarmed him. He carefully turned the direction from which the sounds came, still prone and covered with debris. Someone snapped a twig walking through the woods. Then another and another. The sounds became more distinct and three men appeared through the trees.

 

All three wore bright hunting vests and carried rifles. As they got closer Illya could see they were Native Americans and most likely out doing the same thing he was. As he watched he noticed another person behind them. She was a lovely young woman strolling along with the men. Probably a relative, Illya thought to himself. He’d heard enough of their banter to be sure they were not THRUSH in disguise so he stood up, shaking off the detritus, and let himself be seen by the newcomers.

 

The group paused in their stroll. They all wore jeans and flannel button-up shirts. The elder of them also had a worn leather pouch hanging at his side. He addressed the stranger. “Hello. What are you doing up here?” he asked noticing the rifle Illya was carrying.

 

“I’m out doing a little hunting for tomorrow’s dinner,” Illya explained. “You seem to be doing the same thing,” he replied nodding toward their weapons.

 

“Yes, we are but did you know you are actually on tribal land here?” the man asked him.

 

Illya glanced around. “No. I wasn’t aware of that. It wasn’t my intention to trespass.”

 

The elder smiled and shook his head. “That’s all right. I won’t run you off this time,” he told Illya. “In the future you would be wise to ask first.” He extended his hand. “I’m Chief Raymond Redcloud.”

 

Illya took the hand and shook it. “Illya Kuryakin.”

 

“That’s a strange accent you have there, Mr. Kuryakin,” Redcloud said. “You’re obviously not from around here, are you?”

 

Illya broke into a grin. “No. I’m from New York.”

 

Redcloud thought it was an even stranger accent for the big city but he nodded anyway. He noticed Illya glance at the others with him. “Pardon my manners. This is my brother Burt, my cousin William, and this,” he said wrapping an arm around the young lady’s shoulder and pulling her forward. “This is my daughter Sophia.”

 

The pretty Indian woman smiled and shyly looked downward.

 

Illya was enchanted with her bashful charm. That with the hunting rifle cradled in her arms made her his type of woman. Shy and lethal. He rather liked the combination. Except, maybe when it is a THRUSH woman. He didn’t like those. “How do you do. You are very lovely. Your father must be very proud.”

 

The man had manners. Chief Redcloud liked that. “What are you hunting Mr. Kuryakin?” he asked.

 

“A friend of mine brought me up to the cabin by the lake over that ridge. He wanted to show me what American Thanksgivings are like. He brought along a frozen turkey but according to my research that was not how a real thanksgiving went. I was hunting for a fresh bird,” he explained.

 

“A traditionalist!” exclaimed the Chief, slapping Illya on the back. “ _Hau_! It’s good!”

 

The others nodded and chuckled, chorusing, “ _Hau!_ ”

 

“Do you think they ate turtle for the first Thanksgiving?” Burt asked hopefully.

 

Illya perked up. “Turtle?”

 

“You don’t need a special occasion to try turtle, you know, Uncle,” Sophia chided. Her smile held more mischief now than shyness.

 

“I know, but I hate to kill a turtle to find out I don’t like the taste.”

 

“Tastes like chicken,” Illya said matter-of-factly as he fiddled with the scope on his rifle.

 

The Natives stared at him in surprise. “You’ve eaten turtle?” Chief Redcloud asked.

 

Illya shrugged. “I’ve eaten a lot of things.”

 

“Does it really taste like chicken, Raymond?” Burt asked the Chief.

 

“I’m not sure. It might. I don’t really care for chicken and I don’t really care for turtle.”

 

“Maybe we should stop by the lake on the way,” William piped up. “I saw some turtles there yesterday. Big fat ones. We’ll get one for Burt. He likes chicken.”

 

Even Burt laughed at that one. The small hunting party set off to find wild fowl. As they walked, the Native Americans eyed Illya’s weapon, but, even though they obviously were bursting with curiosity, no one asked him and Illya offered no information. Within minutes they had come to a clearing similar to the one Illya had chosen, but this one had a small lake nearby. A lone swan glided over the surface. No turtles. Too bad.

 

As the others fanned out and squatted down to wait for their dinner to show, Illya situated himself. He lay behind a small log and propped his Russian M91/30 silenced sniper rifle on it. It was an older model weapon, he knew, its heyday ending in the late nineteen forties. But he hadn’t felt comfortable using his UNCLE special and its attachments for a personal outing, so he’d brought his personal rifle. This particular gun was the one on which he learned the art of killing and he hated to get rid of it. Besides, if it was good enough for the greatest sniper in Russian history, Vassily Zaitsev, it was good enough for him.

 

He was aware of his companions’ scrutiny, but he ignored them and concentrated only on the crosshairs centered on the open meadow. The sounds of gobbling turkeys came from the left of the meadow, growing louder by the second. Before long, several ugly white hens entered the field. Illya shifted his rifle until the edge of the meadow where the females came from was in his sights. Noises around him told him the others were getting ready to start shooting. Still he ignored them, intent only on what he wanted. Finally, a big, magnificent tom strutted into his scope. Illya centered the crosshairs on the tom’s eyeball and squeezed the trigger. A slight _chuff_ sounded from the end of his silenced rifle. Tom stopped, stiffened, and fell over. The rest of the turkeys continued their meanderings across the meadow, completely unaware one of them was dead.

 

As though the tom keeling over was a signal, shots rang out from the other hunters and several more birds went down. The lucky ones took flight and cleared the meadow in record time. William and Burt whooped in glee as they hurried towards their kills. Sophia startled Illya with the loud trill so unique to American Indians. From his time with another tribe during the Indian Affairs Affair, Illya knew it to be a cry of victory and triumph.

 

Illya, Sophia, and Chief Redcloud joined Burt and William. Burt knelt next to the big tom. “What an amazing shot,” he whispered in awe. “In the eye and straight into the brain.” He looked up at Illya with an admiring grin. “Unlike William there who had to shoot his bird three times before it went down, you won’t be picking bits of metal out of your teeth.”

 

Illya started to reach for his kill, but Chief Redcloud put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “You must properly thank his spirit and release it before you take it.”

 

“Oh,” Illya said, nodding. He remembered his other Native American friends talking about this. “All right. What do I have to do?”

 

Chief Redcloud reached into his leather pouch and pulled out a smaller leather bag. He held it out to Illya. “The tobacco is very _wakan,_ sacred. It will honor him and help take his spirit to the Great Spirit.” He showed Illya what to do with it. As the Russian carried out the task, Redcloud sang something in his native tongue. The other hunters followed suit, using tobacco on their own birds and adding their voices to Redcloud’s. Once the ritual was finished, the Chief nodded once and said, “We thank you for your sacrifice, my brothers and sisters. Go gently and swiftly to your next life. _Mitakye!_ ”

 

“What does that mean?” Illya asked, the curiosity of a linguist coming to the fore.

 

“We are all related.” Redcloud smiled at Illya. “Now, Nephew, pick up your bird and take it home for your wife to pluck!”

 

Gobble Gobble

 

 

Napoleon had everything ready when he heard the car drive up. Looking out the front window he could see Mindy and Sissy getting out with their suitcases for the weekend stay with the boys. He was glad that Illya wasn’t back yet. It would be easier to explain with the girls already here than try and deal with the Russian by himself. Sissy liked the strong silent type according to Mindy. Napoleon thought she’d make a great match for Illya and, just like Mindy told him, she was really cute too.

 

As a gentleman would, Napoleon met the ladies coming up the path to the door. He took their luggage as he leaned in to give Mindy a peck on the cheek in greeting.

 

“I’m glad you ladies made it up before dark,” he told them in the early haze of a setting sun. “Sometimes those country roads can be tough to navigate after the sun’s gone down.”

 

“I’d go anywhere for a sunset with you Napoleon,” Mindy said wrapping her hands around his arm as they went into the cabin. “This is my friend Sissy. I don’t think you’ve met.”

 

Napoleon looked across to the other blonde. “Pleased to meet you Sissy. I’m glad you could make it. I wanted to show Illya what a real Thanksgiving was now that he’s in America. Good company is part of that.”

 

Sissy blushed. “Thank you for thinking of me. I would have been pretty bored with Mindy gone,” she replied since the two ladies roomed together.

 

They entered the cabin and Mindy looked around. A nice warm fire burned in the fireplace and the place looked freshly cleaned and cozy. “So where is Illya?” Mindy asked.

 

Napoleon set the bags down outside the bedroom doors. “Actually, “ he said looking somewhat puzzled. “I expected him back before now,” he replied looking at his watch. “Maybe he’s not the great white hunter he thought he was.”

 

“Hunter? I thought you said you were bringing all the food up with you,” Mindy said. “Did you forget the most important thing?”

 

Napoleon sighed and shook his head. “No. It’s thawing in the kitchen in some water. Illya gets a little extreme when it comes to traditions of cultures he’s learning about. He insisted on going out and getting a fresh bird.”

 

“He likes hunting?” Sissy asked, mouth twisting in disgust.

 

Napoleon smiled casually. “He’s been known to enjoy a kill or two.”

 

Sissy frowned, nodded and went over to the fireplace to warm her hands. “Mindy told me about him but she didn’t mention that. She said he liked test tubes and Bunsen burners.”

 

“Yes,” he replied. “He works in the lab a lot too.”

 

Mindy giggled. She whispered to Napoleon. “I didn’t want to scare her off before we got here. She doesn’t approve of hunting.”

 

Gobble Gobble

 

Illya accompanied the hunting party back to a cluster of homes on the reservation. They were greeted by a group of about twenty-five people, Redcloud’s large extended family.

 

“My friend insisted I needed to experience a real traditional American Thanksgiving,” Illya said during a discussion of traditions. “Then he pulls out a frozen turkey. I have done my research. The Pilgrims and Indians who ate the first Thanksgiving meal together did not do it with a frozen turkey. They had fresh turkeys, ducks, geese, swan, and deer. Too much of the deer meat would have gone to waste, so I’d decided against that, but I wanted a fresh turkey.”

 

The others sitting around murmured their understanding and approval. Flush from his victory in the hunt, Illya became magnanimous and invited the whole group to spend Thanksgiving with him and Napoleon. It impressed the Chief’s daughter a lot and her eyes shone every time he looked at her. Now all Illya had to do was tell Napoleon when he got back to the cabin. “I think I should be getting back.”

 

One of the men, Bruce, stood. “Let me drive you,” he offered, pointing to an old pickup truck.

 

Several other men wanted to go along for the ride, piling into the pickup truck. All but the driver hopped into the bed, leaving the shotgun position for their guest. Sophia decided to accompany them as well, squeezing between Illya and Bruce. Illya didn’t mind. Besides the fact that he found her quite nice, not to mention attractive, he decided bringing a few of them back with him would keep his partner from trying to pull rank on him and forbidding it. Napoleon would never be so crass as to do that in front of these people.

 

When Illya arrived, he noticed a strange car beside Napoleon’s. Illya stepped out of the truck holding the door for balance and waved the dead turkey at Napoleon, who had come outside at the sound of the loud truck. Solo’s jaw dropped when he saw the American Indians accompanying his partner. Illya’s jaw tightened when he saw the women standing behind Solo. They both shot each other a look that said someone had some ‘splainin’ to do.

 

Napoleon recovered his aplomb first. That was easy. Illya had no aplomb. Solo’s smile appeared generous to one and almost all. The only one unconvinced of its sincerity was a small blond turkey hunter. That was fine. Napoleon wanted Illya to know he was not a happy camper. The man driving the truck unfolded himself from behind the wheel. He towered over the much smaller Russian. Napoleon thought the man’s black braid might be taller than Illya. “So, Illya,” Napoleon said with bare civility. “Who are your new, ah, friends?”

 

“Who are yours?” Illya intoned.

 

“Mindy and Sissy.” Napoleon nodded to each as he said her name. “I invited them to spend Thanksgiving with us.”

 

“And this is Bruce, Sophie, George, Toby, John, and Dennis. I invited THEM and their family to spend Thanksgiving with us.”

 

Napoleon stared at him with a jaundiced eye and a painted on smile. His voice was a silky purr. “Could I please speak with you in private?” he asked through gritted teeth.

 

Illya knew that tone could mean one of two things. Either Napoleon was about to ask someone to have sex or he was furious. Since Napoleon, a firm ladies man, knew propositioning his partner, who was also a very heterosexual male, was out of the question, Illya decided his friend was furious. Fine. He wasn’t feeling too much goodwill towards Solo at the moment. Illya jerked his chin towards the front door. Napoleon spun and led the way.

 

Once inside and basically out of earshot of the visitors, Napoleon turned on him. “What do you think you’re doing inviting people for dinner without consulting me first?”

 

Illya snorted in disbelief. “I don’t remember you asking my permission to invite Windy and Fishy.”

 

“That’s Mindy and Sissy,” Napoleon snarled between clenched teeth. “And I can invite anyone I want. I’m the one footing the bill for this little outing, if you remember right.”

 

Illya’s blue eyes narrowed to slits. “I offered to help pay for it. You refused. Now I know why.”

 

“That’s not the reason and you know it, but the fact remains that I AM paying for everything and I decide who I’m going to feed with my money.”

 

Illya acted hurt--he was a good actor. “You told me you wanted to pay for it because you wanted to show me what a traditional Thanksgiving was like.”

 

“I do, Illya. That means sharing it with friends and family. Not strangers.”

 

“Ninny and Spacey are strangers to me.”

 

“Mindy and Sissy,” Napoleon ground out.

 

“Fine. Whinny and Hissy. At least I invited real American Indians, who were at the first Thanksgiving. And I have hunted the meat. Tomorrow I will hunt for a few more birds and I will ask the Indians to bring some fruits, vegetables, and such. Then we will all eat and we won’t have to touch a morsel of your food.”

 

Napoleon sighed, a look of defeat on his face. Illya ruthlessly suppressed a triumphant grin.    

 

Returning to the group of Natives out by the truck, Illya smiled and happily announced that all had been arranged. The men and lovely maiden should return tomorrow with whatever they would like to bring and a Thanksgiving feast would begin. In fact the whole family was expected, men, women, and children alike.

 

Gobble Gobble

 

In the cabin Mindy cornered Napoleon by the chimney as he stoked fire. “Just what is going on around here? I thought this was going to be a quiet weekend with just the four of us,” she snapped at him.

 

“I know. It is… will be,” he said not having the faintest idea how to accomplish that now. “Let me talk to Illya some more. But we still have tonight,” he reminded her.

 

“Tonight?” she said before remembering what they had in mind. Then as she thought about it she mellowed. A smile spread over her face. “Well… I suppose so.”

 

Napoleon stood up and pressed himself closer to her. “Just you and I,” he said walking her back slightly and turning her at the same time. He tipped his head toward one of the bedroom doors. “In there… getting to know one another… intimately?” He was using that silky purring voice that irritated his partner so much.

 

She glanced over her shoulder. Sissy was on the couch reading and ignoring them. Mindy giggled. “Napoleon! You always know what a girl wants.”

 

“I am an expert at that kind of thing,” he whispered while moving in to nuzzle her ear.

 

The front door opened and closed with a crash as Illya slammed it behind him. He marched across the room toward the second bedroom and on his way through gave the trio a curt good night. He was about to close the bedroom door behind him when Napoleon called out to him.

 

“Illya. It’s early. Where are you going?” He was hoping the Russian would stay up and socialize with Sissy a bit before Napoleon snuck off with Mindy.

 

“To bed Napoleon,” was the answer he gave. “I have to rise early to get enough for dinner for us all.”

 

“But Illya,” Napoleon said looking puzzled. “We already have that turkey I brought up.”

 

Illya looked down his nose and shook his head. “You may dine on tough turkey tenderloins but I shall have a Thanksgiving bird as the first settlers did.” He closed the door, leaving Sissy sitting on the couch confused.

 

“What’s going on around here anyway?” Sissy asked. “I thought that was supposed to be my room. Where am I going to sleep?”

 

Mindy developed that fed up expression again. “You’ll sleep with me in the double bed in my room Sissy. Napoleon can have the couch!”

 

Both women went into the first bedroom and closed the door as Napoleon watched with a rather deflated look on his face. He glanced at the couch. It didn’t look very comfortable.

 

Gobble Gobble

 

It was still dark when Illya awoke. He had a well-developed internal alarm clock and needed an early start to hike to his hunting spot if he was going to return in time to get the birds cooking for their Thanksgiving dinner.

 

Illya saw Napoleon, looking very uncomfortable, sleeping on the couch barely illuminated by the dying embers of the fire. Before gathering his things, Illya got more wood and stoked the hearth to keep it burning until Napoleon woke up. He didn’t realize that someone was in the kitchen getting some water when he walked in.

 

Sissy was looking through the icebox. She stood up and turned around to find someone standing mere inches in front of her face. Startled, she opened her mouth to scream but a hand silenced her as the blond man spoke quietly not to wake the others.

 

“Why are you up?” he asked quietly.  

 

Sissy had to assume this was the infamous Illya. She didn’t know for sure because they were never properly introduced and she’d mostly seen his backside as it disappeared into the bedroom last night. “I was thirsty,” she whispered in return. “I’m looking for a soda.”

 

Illya raised an eyebrow and opened the vegetable crisper of the refrigerator. Instead of vegetables, it was packed with bottles of soda pop.

 

She snatched one and popped the top off with a bottle opener. She eyed his rifle with disgust. “You’re going hunting again?” she sneered.

 

“Yes.” He took a soda out for himself and put it into a small knapsack that he then flung onto his back. He stalked out of the kitchen.

 

Sissy wore a sleepwear set of comfy pants and tee shirt. Not worrying about getting more fully dressed, she quickly slipped her shoes on and threw on her coat as he walked out the door. She chased after him, catching up to him at the edge of the woods. “We have a perfectly good bird here without you going out to slay one.”

 

Illya didn’t answer or slacken his pace. Sissy dogged his steps, arguing with him the whole time. “Killing a turkey just so you can have your stupid traditional Thanksgiving is murder and it’s just plain wrong!”

 

Illya stopped abruptly and whirled to face her. “The frozen turkey you plan to eat isn’t exactly alive. Why is that acceptable when my hunting for our dinner is not?”

 

Her eyes widened. “Uh, well,” she stammered.

 

Illya didn’t give her a chance to explain. “That frozen monstrosity Napoleon was planning to cook was raised on a turkey farm. Have you ever seen a turkey farm?” Sissy opened her mouth to answer, but Illya interrupted her. “I have. There are thousands of turkeys packed into one small, low building. Wall to wall turkeys. They barely have space to move. A gulag has better conditions. They then take these turkeys and slaughter them so they may be shipped to your grocer’s freezer.”

 

Sissy turned a little green and Illya gleefully continued. “On the other hand, the turkeys I am after have had the best lives a turkey can hope for. They’re in the vast woods with plenty of space, living free. I will then shoot two or three, not several hundred, and they will go back with me to our dinner table. We will eat and therefore survive another day and the rest of the turkeys will continue to live in freedom. What happens on the turkey farms is murder, Miss. What I am planning to do is necessary to our survival.”

 

Sissy’s mouth had fallen open at the beginning of the tirade and remained so. “I . . .”

 

But Illya had turned and was once more on his way to his destination. Sissy followed, but the fires of her outrage had been effectively doused by Illya’s words.  

 

Illya was grateful she’d finally decided to be quiet. As long as she remained so, he wouldn’t send her back. He had nothing against her personally. It wasn’t her fault Napoleon was an idiot, but he didn’t care for her constant nagging. As they passed by the lake, the swan from the day before--well, it could have been a different one--still floated on the surface. He looked at it thoughtfully and stopped. The sun was just starting to make its appearance and the day was dawning clear, bright, and promised to be a beautiful day. Even though it was cold now, Illya felt it might warm up rather nicely later.

 

Sissy wrapped her arms around herself in order to retain heat. Her breath manifested in front of her in large puffs of vapor.

 

“Shallow breaths,” Illya said as he set up his area.

 

“Excuse me?” Sissy asked, teeth chattering a little.

 

“Breathe shallower. It will help keep your breath from vaporizing.” He pointed to the pile of leaves and forest debris he’d arranged. “Lay down, please.”

 

A look of indignation crossed Sissy’s lovely face. She drew herself to her full height, which was about an inch and a half taller than Illya. He hadn’t realized how much she slouched. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”

 

“One who chose to follow me into the cold morning rather than stay in the warm cabin. If you’re going to be here, you’re going to follow my instructions. Otherwise, return to the cabin.”

 

She glared at him, and then lowered herself to the forest floor. Illya lay down beside her and positioned his rifle on a small tripod. “What’s that?”

 

“Shhhh.”

 

After about two minutes, Sissy spoke up again. “I’m not real knowledgeable about hunting, but I have seen pictures. I don’t recall anyone doing anything like this.

 

He turned his head just enough to blast her with his arctic blue eyes. “Be. Quiet.”

 

She ignored the warning. “Just what are you waiting for? I don’t see any turkeys. It hardly seems like a fair fight. You acting like some sort of sniper against a helpless turkey.”

 

Illya turned toward her again. “Why is it women have to constantly talk? Is it some defect in the genes?” he asked aloud in a disgusted tone.

 

Sissy was peeved. “I didn’t come all this way to be insulted.”

 

“You should have stayed at the cabin then,” Illya replied watching the swan glide over the water. “I would have obliged you when I got back. Now be quiet.”

 

Sissy huffed in irritation. If she knew the way back on her own she would have left right at that moment.

 

Gobble Gobble

 

Napoleon woke up and groaned slightly as he sat up. He was stiff and had a strain in his neck from sleeping on the couch but he blinked and after yawning looked around to the noise that woke him.

 

“Mindy? What’s the matter?” he asked as she came in from the kitchen.

 

“It’s Sissy. I can’t find her,” she replied in a huff. “She’s disappeared with that… that… partner of yours.”

 

“Illya?” Napoleon said as he looked at the open door of the second bedroom. “Illya said he was going hunting again this morning. Remember?” he reminded her.

 

“But where is Sissy then?” she snapped back at him.

 

Napoleon shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe she went for a walk… or with Illya,” he suggested.

 

Mindy shook her head. “Sissy hates hunting. She’d never go willingly. If she’s with him he probably forced her to go.”

 

Now it was Napoleon’s turn to shake his head. “Illya wouldn’t do that. He’d never hurt her.”

 

“We should go after them,” Mindy said looking toward the door as if ready to bolt out.

 

Napoleon got up and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “They’ll be fine. He’ll be back soon waving another one of those dumb turkeys around and demanding I cook it.” He furrowed his brow and looked at her quizzically. “Say Mindy. Do you know how to cook a turkey?” he asked unsure how to go about it himself.

 

She shifted her eyes up to his face and frowned.

 

Gobble Gobble

 

“You shot it!” Sissy cried out in shock. “What did you do that for?”

 

Illya took in and released a long slow breath before getting up and walking toward the shore. “For dinner. We have a lot of company coming.”

 

“But you killed a swan! You don’t eat swan at Thanksgiving,” Sissy insisted feeling sorry for the bird.

 

Illya picked it up by the neck. It was another clean kill through the head. That and the turkey would be a good start to dinner. “I’ve done research,” he insisted. “Swan was eaten at Thanksgiving. And so was goose, ducks, turkeys and various other meats and vegetables. Perhaps you should read more,” he told her and dragged the bird over to her. “It is food like any other animal. Deer would be nice but I don’t think you could carry one.”

 

Sissy’s eyes went wide. He looked like he was serious.

 

Gobble Gobble

 

A truck badly needing a muffler drove up to the cabin. More vehicles could be heard following it. Soon voices began to fill the yard and Napoleon looked out to see the first dozen or so Natives arriving. He shook his head. _Illya. What on earth did you think you were doing?_

A solid rapping sounded on the door. Napoleon cinched his robe tighter around him and opened it up. An elderly Indian couple stood grinning at him.

 

“Happy Thanksgiving!” the man said, holding out his hand. “I am Raymond Redcloud. Illya invited us to share a feast with you.”

 

Napoleon shook the offered hand briefly. “Napoleon Solo.” Before he could say anything more, the old woman pushed past him, followed by a number of women and girls of various ages carrying bowls and baskets filled with fruits, vegetables, and grains. Two men followed, one with a large bag of commodity flour and one with sugar. Every one of them smiled and murmured greetings at Napoleon as they moved around him.

 

Napoleon stared in dismay at the people flowing past. A glance past the old Indian’s shoulder showed an equally large number of men moving about, plucking birds or gathering wood. One man had a shovel and prepared to break ground in the front yard. “Uh, how many of you are there?”

 

“Twenty-four,” Redcloud proudly announced. “Twenty-seven if you count the babies, but they won’t be eating. At least, not the feast.”

 

Napoleon swiveled to survey the fiasco his Thanksgiving threatened to turn into. The grandmotherly woman he assumed was Mrs. Redcloud swept into the kitchen, imperiously ordering Mindy to get out of the way.

 

“Hey!” Mindy said indignantly. “You can’t throw me out of here!”

 

The grandmother eyed her. “You don’t look like someone who knows her way around a kitchen to me. Am I wrong?”

 

Mindy drew herself up. “As a matter of fact, you are.”

 

“Good!” The old woman thrust some squash into Mindy’s hands. “Start chopping.” A cacophony of women’s voices filled the cabin as they got to work.

 

Mindy put the squash on the counter, shot Napoleon a glare that said she thought he was pond slime, and stomped into the bedroom she shared with Sissy. Solo knew with a certainty his idea of intimacy with Mindy was now a pipe dream. _Illya, you are going to pay for this,_ he thought, anger rising.

 

The object of his ire chose that very moment to arrive from his foray. Shouts of greetings from the Native men heralded Illya’s triumphant return. Napoleon’s anger suddenly turned to horror when he realized the dead bird in his partner’s hand was not a turkey. It was a swan. A swan?!? His face scrunched in disgust. “Uh, Illya, did you missed your target and hit a swan instead?”

 

Illya glared at him in irritation. “I never miss,” he intoned.

 

Sissy staggered into the cabin behind the hunter. She looked a bit worse for wear with the leaves and bits of rotting vegetation sticking out of her hair and clinging to her pajamas. Pajamas? Illya took her hunting in pajamas? What the hell happened last night?

 

Before he could ask, Sissy grabbed his arm, her fingernails digging into the flesh. “Your friend is crazy,” she muttered, sounding a little on the insane side herself.

 

Napoleon pried her fingers off his arm. “Eccentric, perhaps, but I assure you, he’s sane.”

 

She shook her head. “No. He killed a swan and he plans to eat it. He’s crazy.” She staggered off to the bedroom.

 

“I don’t think she likes hunting,” Illya said from beside him. He flinched in surprise at the look of fury Napoleon turned on him. Perhaps he had overstepped his bounds by letting Sissy accompany him. Of course, he hadn’t asked her to come. She’d done that on her own, so it was her fault.    

 

“In the bedroom, Kuryakin,” Napoleon growled. “We need to talk.”

 

Illya’s only outward reaction was a raised eyebrow. Inside, though, he was starting to get upset at his partner. He spun and walked towards the bedroom he’d slept in last night. Why was Napoleon trying to ruin Thanksgiving for him? Especially since this was the first one Illya had had a chance to observe since coming to America two years ago. The first year he and Napoleon hadn’t been partners yet and he had no friends to speak of, so he spent the day alone in his little apartment watching Thanksgiving programs on his telly. Last year was spent in a THRUSH cell for half of it and the infirmary for the other half.

 

This year he’d wanted to find out what it was all about, researching the history very carefully. Illya identified with the Pilgrims. He knew what it was like to be starving with no prospects of food in sight. He understood how grateful they must have been to the Native Americans who showed them what foods to grow and what game to hunt. He felt the same thing for the couple that found him living on the streets of war torn Kiev and took him in. For the man who became his surrogate father, a KGB officer who taught Illya everything he needed to know to survive. He thought Thanksgiving sounded like a wonderful holiday and he’d looked forward to it. Now Napoleon was spoiling everything.

 

He resisted the urge to fold his arms across his chest as he waited for his partner to close the door. No use showing Napoleon how angry he was getting. He set his jaw, determined not to give in no matter how much Napoleon tried to manipulate him.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Solo asked once they were alone.

 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“Inviting twenty-seven people? Not two or three, but twenty-seven. Twenty. Seven.”

 

“Actually, it’s twenty-four . . .”

 

“Because the babies won’t be eating the same thing we do. So I’ve been informed. I’m paying for this cabin and I say I don’t want those people in here.”

 

Illya blinked in surprise. “Pardon?”

 

“You heard me, Kuryakin! I want them out of my kitchen and out of my house.”

 

Illya’s jaw tightened. Napoleon was a self-centered man, but he was seldom selfish. When he got that way, however, there was no dissuading him. There were ways to work around him, though. “You promised me a . . .”

 

“Traditional Thanksgiving. And I ‘m trying to give you one, but you keep getting in the way, insisting things are done your way. What do you know about Thanksgiving, anyway?” Napoleon scoffed.

 

“A lot more than you might think,” Illya replied softly. He brushed by his partner and went to explain things to Chief Redcloud.

 

Napoleon watched him go, a vague feeling he was missing something important in what Illya just said, but too mad to care.

 

As Illya left, Mindy came in ready to tear a strip of Napoleon. “Just what the hell is going on around here? I came up here and I was nice enough to bring Sissy for a nice simple Thanksgiving with you and that psycho you brought and this is what happens?” she snarled at him. “I’d pack up and leave right now but there are so many cars behind mine it looks like it’s lost in an auto wreckers yard. Just what are you going to do about all this?”

 

Mindy was standing there with her hands on her hips looking more dangerous than a THRUSH minion on steroids. Napoleon sighed at the sight. “I guess we’re going to have to show them all what a real Thanksgiving is,” he declared. “Illya’s clearing them out of the house so you, Sissy, and I, will cook our own dinner and they can see what they’re missing. Come on,” he told her. “I’m going to make this all up to you and Sissy now.” He glanced down at his wardrobe of red dressing gown over a pair of dark red pajamas. “Make that right after I get dressed.” He twiddled his fingers to shoo her out of the room.   Not that he didn’t want her to see him naked, but he wasn’t exactly at his best at the moment. Once dressed, he met the two women in the kitchen where his bird was thawed and ready to stuff.

 

Napoleon got to work. Surely stuffing a turkey and roasting it with all the trimmings couldn’t be that hard as long as he followed the recipes.

 

This was all for Illya in the first place. Napoleon wanted to show him what a traditional dinner was like. He bought a nice plump turkey, stuffing with oysters, and cans of sweet potatoes, peas, carrots, and asparagus. He had rolls purchased from an exclusive store in downtown New York. There were pies from upscale bakeries, and pastries that made your mouth water. Napoleon had gone all out on the accompaniments including providing two beautiful ladies to share the meal and a fabulous modernized cabin to spend it in. Illya had no idea what Thanksgiving was all about and Napoleon was going to have it with or without him.

 

Gobble Gobble

 

Illya apologized to Redcloud and the women from the tribe. He had no idea his partner was going to be so pig-headed about things. Luckily it was an unseasonably warm day and the area around the cabin was suitable. They could cook their meal out here over open fires just like the first Thanksgiving.

 

Redcloud thought it was a grand idea and some of the young braves began building several more fire pits. While the younger children played, the older ones helped the men in setting up the chairs and tables brought from the res, or the women in the food preparations.

 

Illya’s swan and turkey had been taken by the women to be plucked and he joined a group of men trading stories and chatting about hunting as they carried supplies from the trucks. Soon the smell of smoke tainted the air and the fires grew hot enough to roast the meat. Nearby, women kept an eye on the children and prepared the vegetables.

 

A young woman started on an Indian Pudding made with grains, cream, spices, and brown sugar. At the same table, an older woman chopped pumpkin for a soup. Another was preparing butternut squash for baking in the coals. Washed potatoes, both regular and the orange and pulpy sweet potato, also went into the hot coals to cook. Sweet potatoes weren't available to the Pilgrims, but Illya liked them so he welcomed their addition to the menu. Sophia came out of the woods carrying what looked like fresh herbs: sage, rosemary, thyme, and some Illya couldn't identify. The cooks descended on her, taking the different herbs to their various prep areas and adding them to their ingredients.

 

One cook station had Mrs. Redcloud and several others working on the dough for the frybread. The grandmotherly woman worked more flour into the yeasty dough that she kneaded. Suddenly she dropped the whole wad into a bucket beside her and instructed two girls to dump the contents of another bucket onto her floured board. Already risen dough plopped onto the board and she rolled it out very flat. The girls, each armed with an empty five-pound coffee can, started to cut circles from the dough. They passed them to another girl who made a hole in the center of each circle. A motherly woman took the discs and dropped them into a vat of very hot oil. After a minute of cooking, she flipped them to fry the other side, then pulled them out to drain on towels. Illya's mouth watered just watching the women work, nose twitching at all the wonderful smells.

 

After all the heavy work was done, Illya sought out the company of one lady that caught his eye the day before. The lovely dark haired, dark eyed, and self-sufficient Sophia. She had a shy way about her hiding the strong independent streak just below the surface.

 

"I like your swan," she said when he walked up to her.

 

"It doesn't bother you?"

 

Her lovely black eyes widened in surprise. "Why should it? Swan is good eating. Most people just don't purposefully hunt for it."

 

"I'm glad you feel that way. Some women would find the idea appalling." Illya thought of the squeamish Sissy, who hypocritically ate a store-bought turkey while condemning the eating of one he had to work much harder at getting than walking into a grocer's and purchasing it.

 

"I was wanting to know, though, if you minded if I kept the feathers? I am making regalia that I think they would go well on."

 

"Oh? A lovely dress for yourself?" She could even make clothing! This was as close as Illya had ever come to what he considered the perfect woman. Domestic and strong.

 

She blushed, looking pleased he might be interested in what she was working on. "Actually, no. It's ceremonial regalia for my father."

 

Illya glanced at Chief Redcloud. "I would be honored if you would use the feathers from my kill in that way."

 

Sophia smiled. "Thank you."

 

A tiny answering smile found its way to the Russian's lips. "You are most welcome."

 

Gobble Gobble

 

Sissy napped in the bedroom, tired from her early morning trek through the woods. She had promised to help cook when she got up later. Meanwhile the Great White Supermarket Shopper prepared their feast in the kitchen.

 

“Are you sure you’re doing that right?” Mindy asked as Napoleon shoved the stuffing in the bird. She thought he was packing it rather tightly.

 

“Once everyone sees ours they’re going to want a taste,” he replied and crammed another handful in. “Turn the oven on for me please. This is almost ready to go in.”

 

Mindy examined the dial on the oven. “How high?”

 

Napoleon thought for a moment. He wanted to cook it quickly. “I guess about 400. That sounds about right.”

 

She set the oven for him. “What kind of potatoes are we having?” she asked. “I could peel them for you.” Mindy was starting to calm down and warm up to Napoleon again. He was trying to do his best in spite of his ungrateful partner.

 

“I’m going to make some creamy mashed potatoes that will go heavenly with the gravy and some roasted ones too. I brought some jars of thyme, rosemary, parsley, and sage. I’ve thought of everything.”

 

Mindy was beginning to feel sorry for Napoleon. She could see the expense and thoughtfulness and trouble he’d gone to intending to show Illya the best Thanksgiving. All Illya could do was be difficult and ruin it for everyone.

 

“I don’t know how you can put up with that guy,” Mindy criticized as she began peeling the potatoes.

 

Napoleon turned around and faced her. “What do you mean?”

 

“Well after all you’ve done for him. I mean look at this cabin you rented. It’s everything you could have in the city but in a beautiful setting up by a lake with a lovely view. All this extravagant food. I’ll bet he’s been so spoiled all his life that it means nothing to him.”

 

Napoleon frowned as he listened to her. Illya never got much in the way of luxuries in the Soviet Union. Here in America, either, for that matter.

 

Mindy rattled on. “You would think he’d appreciate a nice place to stay in like this but it’s probably second class compared to his home in the city. I’ll bet he lives in a fancier place than you do. That guy doesn’t care about you or what you’re doing for him.”

 

The drab apartment with the lumpy second hand couch and little black and white television popped into Napoleon’s mind. Illya had very meager belongings but the Russian never complained about them. In fact Illya never sought to get new things to replace them. He told Napoleon that they did what he needed them to do and he was happy with that. Napoleon knew that Illya was paid well by UNCLE and he always wondered why the Russian lived like that. He recalled one day when he’d stopped by to pick Illya up. He was waiting in the living room and noticed a piece of scrap paper on the floor by the magazine shelf and picked it up to throw in the trash can. Glancing at it to make sure it was garbage he saw that it was a receipt for a money order sent to a Russian orphanage. Besides the percentage of his wages taken by the Russian government, Illya was sending money to help out an orphanage in Kiev.

 

The drone of Mindy’s voice invaded Napoleon’s mental wanderings as he turned to clean up the counter from getting the turkey ready.

 

“Some friend Napoleon. He’s selfish and arrogant. Probably thinks you’re some kind of shmuck for putting out for all of this. And to drag Sissy through the woods this morning like that. He doesn’t have the faintest consideration for anyone else. You’d better watch your back because in a tight situation he’d probably be the first to turn and leave you to hold the bag on your own.”

 

Napoleon listened to Mindy complain about Illya all afternoon but everything she was saying was just the opposite of Illya. Of course from her point of view Illya was exactly what she thought he was. Napoleon knew the truth of the man’s history though. Her ideas couldn’t have been farther away from it.

 

 

Sissy got up and dressed looking much better than she had earlier. She looked out the window to see the house surrounded by Indians and shook her head, wondering if maybe she, Napoleon, and Mindy should think about circling up the covered wagons. After using the bathroom, she wandered into the kitchen where it sounded like Mindy and Napoleon had made up and were now talking nicely between them. Hungry since she’d had nothing to eat yet, Sissy nodded her greetings and opened the fridge.

 

“What’s for breakfast?” she asked although it was past noon. The smell of the food inside and out was driving her mad.

 

“I have just the thing,” Napoleon said and steered her away from the door. “You sit down and I’ll get it.”

 

Sissy went to the dining room table and Mindy followed her. They both sat down and waited for Napoleon’s mysterious surprise.

 

The suave man swept into the room a moment later with a tray of goodies.

 

Mindy’s eyebrows rose at the sight. “Caviar? For breakfast? Oh Napoleon. You are really turning this day around.”

 

Sissy smiled and shook her head at Mindy. “You can’t stay mad at a man like that can you?”

 

Napoleon pulled out a bottle of champagne and they began their meal while dinner finished cooking.

 

Gobble Gobble

 

While their dinner cooked, several men set up a drum large enough that five of them including Burt, William, and Bruce could sit around it. They each held one beater, which they used to set up a steady heartbeat rhythm. Burt, the family medicine man and apprentice to the tribal medicine man, started to sing. After a minute the others at the drum joined in. The cooks danced while continuing to prepare the food, bending their knees with every other beat. Illya gravitated towards the drummers, fascinated. Burt noticed the quiet blond man glide towards them like a wraith. With a smile, Burt stepped out of his chair and handed Illya his beater, pointing to his vacated place.

 

The blond looked at him questioningly. At Burt’s nod, Illya delightedly slipped into the now empty chair and started to drum with the rest of them. The other men smiled and nodded at him, accepting them into their ranks.

 

Burt didn’t know Illya well, but he admired the small man with the strong spirit. He walked as silently as a wraith. He was one hell of a shot, even if he did use a strange weapon with which to hunt. He’d have to ask him about that gun later. An interesting fellow, this Illya Kuryakin. He may be a white man, but he had the Indian heart. He would bear watching.

 

Gobble Gobble

 

“What in the world is that?” Mindy asked.

 

Sissy looked out the window and saw the men beating the drum and singing. “I think they’re getting ready to storm the covered wagons.”

 

Napoleon snickered as he snacked on a dollop of caviar on a cracker. “I don’t know what everyone gets so worked up about when it comes to cooking Thanksgiving dinner. This hasn’t been that hard.” He smiled smugly as the timer on the oven went off, signaling the turkey was done. He pulled the bird out, mouth watering in expectation. It certainly smelled good. He took off the aluminum foil the recipe book had said to cover it with and his smile converted into a frown.

 

Mindy looked over his shoulder. “Oh, my. What happened to it?”

 

Napoleon surveyed the turkey, which had split in half, the oyster dressing spilling into the little bit of drippings left in the pan.

 

Sissy wandered over to see it. “Looks like you stuffed it too full.”

 

Mindy gave Napoleon an “I-told-you-so” look. She immediately felt guilty. “I’m sure it will still be a lot better than those birds your so-called friend shot. They’re probably all stringy, tough, and dry.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure of it,” Sissy put in.

 

“We’ll just carve it in here and no one will be any wiser,” Napoleon decided. He quickly cut up the bird while Mindy and Sissy spooned everything into bowls. They took the turkey and arranged it artfully on a plate. Sissy quickly whipped up gravy. “Um, it’s a little lumpy.”

 

“I doubt they’ll know the difference,” Mindy sniffed.

 

“Let’s get this stuff outside,” Napoleon said. “I want to eat with Illya, even if he has been a pain in the neck.” They took their meal out to the folding tables the Natives had set up. The tables already groaned under the load of food, but Napoleon found a place to set theirs up. He was sure everyone would eat all of his and let Illya’s birds go completely untouched.

 

Chief Redcloud clapped his hands. “Everyone find a place to sit down!” he commanded. Illya found Napoleon sitting on a log and settled next to him. Mindy sat on the other side of Solo and Sissy on a rock beside her. When everyone was quietly sitting, he smiled. “Well, we made it to another Thanksgiving,” he said. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m extremely thankful for that!” Everyone laughed, even Napoleon, Mindy, and Sissy.

 

“Retta is making a Spirit plate,” Redcloud continued, gesturing to his wife. She made her way down the buffet tables, putting a little of each dish on a paper plate. Before long, the plate threatened to give out under the load. She topped it with a piece of frybread and brought it to her husband. He took it with a smile. He faced east and held the plate up, saying a prayer of thanks to Grandfather who resided in the East for the food. He did this for all directions, plus Mother Earth, Father Sky, and the Great Spirit. At the end of it, he thanked their flying brothers, four-legged brothers--to Illya’s delight, someone had brought deer--and their growing relations such as the grains, fruits, and vegetables, for their sacrifices so all gathered here could eat and survive one more day. Retta took the plate from him and gave it to a boy who hurriedly took it to the edge of the woods and set it down, then ran back.

 

The ritual awed Illya. He was not a particularly religious man. Growing up in the Soviet Union saw to that. But everything Redcloud had said seemed to strike a cord within him. No doubt about it. This Thanksgiving thing was a wonderful idea.

 

Mindy snorted softly as the old man finished. She leaned in to whisper in Napoleon’s ear. “I hope your partner doesn’t buy into these godless heathens’ beliefs.”

 

“Actually, I think they remind him of his gypsy friends,” Napoleon replied to the comment.

 

“Let’s eat!” Redcloud said, interrupting their conversation. Everyone stood and got into a line at the buffet table. Napoleon took a small piece of one of the wild turkeys so he wouldn’t hurt Illya’s feelings, but pretty much bypassed everything else.

 

The girls were more adventurous. As they rounded the tables with the others and tried a little of almost everything. The food smelled wonderful.

 

Napoleon filled his plate with the store bought produce he prepared. He helped himself to a cup of hot apple cider and sat down with his plate to eat. In spite of their argument, Illya, with his filled plate, went and sat down beside Napoleon.

 

The dark haired agent glanced at his partner’s plate. “Not a very traditional dinner,” he commented.

 

Illya took a sip of his cider and said, “It is more traditional than yours. When the colonists came over from Europe they tried to grow food for the winter but the climate was not right for what they had. Their crops failed and they didn’t know the native vegetation well enough to gather what they needed. The first year they shared a meal with the Native peoples of this land and this is what they ate. In fact if it were not for those Natives the settlers would have starved that first winter and then you would not have a Thanksgiving to celebrate.”

 

Napoleon thought about that while he started eating his food. He took a bite and paused in thought about the flavor. The turkey he cooked was dry. He tried dipping it in the gravy Sissy made but that made it worse. It was lumpy gravy and had a slightly burnt taste to it. He tried to get rid of the taste by eating some of the mashed potatoes but Mindy hadn’t heated the butter and milk before she added it. The potatoes were sticky and cold. He sighed and looked up at the sky.

 

“Something the matter?” Illya asked as he wolfed his way through his first plateful.

 

Napoleon feigned satisfaction. “No Illya. Everything is fine. How is yours?”

 

“Great,” he said with a mouthful of deer roast flavored with garlic, wild thyme, and rosemary. “You should try some of ours. It is very good.”

 

It did look good but Napoleon was too proud to admit it. “No thank you. I’ll stick to mine.”

 

Illya continued gorging himself and shrugged. “As you please.” He tore off a piece of the frybread and dipped it into the juices collecting on his plate. He bit into the tasty treat. Through a stuffed mouth he mumbled, “I have not had deer in ages. This one is cooked very well.”

 

Napoleon nodded and choked down another dry piece of turkey moistened with the greasy oyster stuffing. “It does smell good,” he admitted grudgingly.

 

Mindy and Sissy quickly turned their noses up at the contribution prepared inside the house in favor of the assortment of food cooked by the Native women. At the insistence of Mrs. Redcloud, Sissy even tried the swan. After a small nibble, her eyes widened. “It tastes like chicken,” she said and took some more. Soon they settled in to chat with some of the women and were getting into the conversations about food and families.

 

As everyone filled their plates the women gravitated into groups around a large bonfire. So did the men. The children sat near their mothers in groups of their own. Sophia did not join her mother and aunts but went over and sat next to Illya.

 

“May I sit here?”

 

“By all means,” Illya said, eyes twinkling with delight. “You ladies did a wonderful job. Everything is delicious.”

 

Sophia blushed prettily. “Thanks.”

 

Illya filled his plate twice more during dinner. He had some of everything… including the petrified turkey Napoleon cooked. He forced down a mouthful and smiled at him. “It is very good.” The smile betrayed the humor of the comment.

 

Napoleon tried hard not to smile but one finally broke out on his face. “Thanks. You’re too kind.”

 

“Yes I am,” Illya said with a straight face and chewed his way through the rest of his food.

 

Sophia giggled at the exchange. At that moment, Burt arrived with his plate laden for the third time and sat in a vacant bit of ground next to Sophia. He nodded to both Illya and Napoleon. “Illya, I do believe this tom you shot tastes better than any I’ve eaten. Fresh or store-bought,” he added with a sideways glance at Napoleon.

 

With a little laugh, Napoleon threw up his hands. “Okay, okay! I’ll try Illya’s turkey! I know when I’m outgunned!” He got up amidst friendly laughter, a large smile on his face, as well. The mark of a good leader was to know when to retreat. Besides, he was hungry and he couldn’t stand the thought of eating anymore of the dinner he had prepared.

 

Burt watched Napoleon fill a plate and nodded knowingly. Illya wondered what he was thinking. With a smile, Burt turned back to the Russian. “Speaking of being outgunned, what kind of hunting rifle is the one you use? I’m pretty knowledgeable about hunting rifles and I’ve never seen one like that.”

 

A ghostly smile flitted across Illya’s lips as he looked down at his plate. “It’s not exactly a hunting rifle,” he admitted.

 

“It’s a sniper rifle,” Sophia said matter-of-factly just as she put a bite of Indian pudding in her mouth. She chewed a moment. “An M91/30,” she continued upon swallowing.

 

Illya stared at her in amazement. “Yes, it is,” he said, impressed. A woman who was domestic _and_ knew her guns! What a woman!

 

“Russian made, I believe,” she went on, the smile on her face telling Illya she enjoyed surprising him with her knowledge. “I never thought I’d see one outside a museum, though, because they pretty much stopped using them twenty years ago.”

 

Illya gave her one of his rare full-blown smiles. “Yes, but it’s still an excellent rifle . . .”

 

Before he could say more and find out how Sophia knew about such things, Chief Redcloud stood up to gather everyone’s attention. He held what looked like the jawbone of some animal decorated with leather, beads, and feathers. He held it up towards Illya, Napoleon, Mindy, and Sissy. “This is a talking stick. Whoever has possession is the one who has the floor, so to speak. When they are finished, they will pass it on. Since this is our Thanksgiving feast, I think each of us sharing what we are thankful for would be appropriate.”

 

His smile encompassed everyone present. “I am thankful for my family, my friends, my People. I am thankful for the food we eat today. Mostly I’m thankful for our new friends and hosts. Illya’s tireless insistence that we observe the most traditional of meals made me remember there was a time when the Native and the white man were friends instead of foes and that it takes all of us working together to make the spirit of the first Thanksgiving the spirit of the everyday. _Aho._ ”

 

He passed the talking stick to his wife, who made her own little speech. She spoke of the good harvest and the successful hunts that filled their cupboards for another year. She talked about the new babies; all thriving and growing like weeds. She gave thanks for her own children’s health and success and finally for that of her husband and their 42 years together. Then she passed the stick on to the next person in the circle.

 

Each man, woman, and child took the jawbone and made his or her own declaration of thanks. They were simple words of gratitude for simple things. Finally it made its way into Illya’s hands.

 

Illya studied the beautiful object for a long moment while collecting his thoughts. He was thankful for so many things, how could he possibly list them all? He knew starvation, so he was thankful for the regular meals he now had. He knew deprivation and was thankful his needs were now met with regularity, as were some of his wants. He knew betrayal and was thankful for Napoleon, whom he could trust with his life. So much. “I am thankful…” he began haltingly.

 

He was so unused to telling anyone how he felt about anything. In his early life no one cared how he felt. Later on, he perceived feelings as a weakness and learned to sublimate them. Napoleon taught him that wasn’t quite right, either, so he knew he needed to strive for a balance. Now was a good time to start. But how could he say what was in his heart without compromising his sense of privacy? Keep it simple. That was always the best way. He glanced around at the sea of faces, all waiting patiently for what he had to say. He took a deep breath. “I am thankful for a full belly, a warm, soft bed, and friends I trust,” he blurted out rapidly. He thrust the talking stick at Napoleon, thankful his turn was over.

 

Napoleon had listened thoughtfully to the speakers around the fire. They spoke of simple things that he took for granted. A belly full of food, a bed to sleep on in a warm dry place… A roof over their heads… New babies, healthy and growing… The Elders still with them… Enough stores for another year until the next harvest. Napoleon was doing a lot of thinking before they called on him.

 

When his turn came he stood up, the talking stick in one hand and a cup of warm cider in the other. He lowered his head for a moment, then began to speak. “I… I want to apologize to everyone. Chief Redcloud. Ladies,” he said nodding toward the man’s wife and daughters. “All of you. Illya. Mindy. Sissy. I’ve done a great injustice to everyone.”

 

People were puzzled by the man’s words but they waited patiently as he spoke.

 

Napoleon continued. “I came up here this weekend wanting to show my friend,” he indicated Illya, “what a proper Thanksgiving celebration was. I had all the food you could buy in a store and the most decadent desserts from exclusive patisseries and bakeries in New York. I had expensive wines and everything you needed to properly do Thanksgiving but I forgot the one most important thing. I forgot to be thankful.”

 

Illya looked up at Napoleon and wondered what he meant.

 

“I was trying to make a perfect holiday and was angry at my friend because I thought he was ruining it. It turns out that I was the one ruining it all along. Thanksgiving isn’t about showing off your excesses. Thanksgiving is being grateful for what you have been blessed with. It’s for remembering how much you care about your friends and families…. And the new friends you meet. It’s for sharing your food and company and wishing that the next year will find you all able to do it over again.”

 

Illya let a small smile cross his face as he looked down to his feet. Yes. Napoleon finally understood.

 

Napoleon held up his cup and waved it slowly from one side of the circle to the other. “I am humbled and honored to be among you tonight. We all need friends to survive and I hope you will forgive me and count me among yours from now on. Happy Thanksgiving.”

 

A round of raised cups and glasses returned the salute. A multitude of voices replied, “Happy Thanksgiving,” in return.

 

Napoleon looked down at Illya sitting beside him. He gave him a warm genuine smile. “Happy Thanksgiving Illya.”

 

The Russian looked up and with the barest hint of a smile replied, “Thank you Napoleon.”

 

**Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!**

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